"I must see him," she said dully. "I must see him. I must hear it from him."
"He refuses to have any further contact with you, love. Get angry, Elizabeth. Curse him. Yell. But don't keep on grieving like this. Please, love."
Elizabeth sobbed painfully into her hands again.
He gathered her into his arms and rocked her like a child. "It will be all right," he crooned. "Everything will be all right."
"No," she wailed.
She was sweating and struggling, fighting for breath. When she opened her eyes against the darkness, she continued to struggle, completely disoriented. It took a while to understand the strangeness of her surroundings. She was in a guest bedroom at Ferndale. She lay still, listening tensely for a while. Had she said anything aloud? Her nightmares had been noisy at first. Many times she had awoken to find John shaking her by the shoulders, telling her over and over that it was just a bad dream and that everything would be all right. No one at Mr. Rowe's house had ever mentioned hearing her call out in her sleep, though several times she had awoken from the nightmare, her face still wet from the tears.
Damn him! Damn Robert Denning, Marquess of Hetherington. How could she be expected to sleep peacefully knowing that he was under the same roof? Was he sleeping dreamlessly? Or was he restless too, troubled perhaps by his conscience? He did not appear to have one, but perhaps it troubled him in his sleep. The thought was somehow comforting.
Elizabeth pushed back the bedcovers impatiently and crossed the room in her bare feet to the window. She pulled back the heavy curtains and stared out into the darkness. It was still raining, though with less force than during the evening. The sky seemed lighter. There seemed even to be some thinner patches in the clouds, though it might have been wishful thinking that made her imagine it.
She shivered. The room felt chilly and damp now that the fire that had been lit earlier in the day had died down, Elizabeth pulled around her shoulders the dressing gown that Mrs. Prosser had lent her, climbed back into the high bed, and sat upright, the bedcovers pulled to her waist, her arms clasped around her knees.
She relived again those few blissful weeks, the best in their courtship, when they had visited Robert's grandmother frequently and had a chance to get to know each other and brief minutes to touch and embrace. Even at the time Elizabeth had wanted those days to go on forever. Two people had contrived to put a stop to their happiness.
Elizabeth had been surprised one evening at a large ball to have her hand solicited for a dance by Robert's uncle. She had seen him before, had even been introduced to him, but she had never seen him dance, had never seen him pay any attention whatsoever to young women. He was a man of enormous wealth and had a great sense of his own importance. As brother to the Marquess of Heth-erington, he felt himself far removed from the common touch. He was generally disliked, Elizabeth had heard. She was terrified of him, though Robert felt a deep respect, even affection, for his uncle. When he asked her to dance, Elizabeth's amazed reaction was that he must be putting his public stamp of approval on his nephew's courtship of her. She could not have been more wrong.
Although he had led her in the direction of the dance floor, Horace Denning had stopped before they could join a set, bowed in chilly hauteur to his partner, and suggested that they sit out the dance.
"I have something I wish to say to you, Miss Rossiter," he had said.
Elizabeth had been far too young and far too awed to resist. He had chosen a secluded alcove that had separated them from the company, though it maintained the proprieties by keeping them in view of the dancers.
"My nephew fancies himself in love with you," he had begun, coming straight to the point.
Elizabeth had been startled and flustered. "Y-yes, sir," she had stammered.
"And I suppose you return the sentiment?" His voice had been coldly sneering.
"Yes, sir," she had answered more firmly, "but I do not see what concern it is of yours."
Ice-blue eyes had bored into hers. "You are impertinent, miss," he had said. "It is very much my concern when a member of my family is about to make a fool of himself."
"A fool of himself?" she had echoed faintly.
"He is two and twenty," Denning had continued, "a mere babe. He has obviously succumbed to an admittedly pretty face and figure. How do you think it would appear to the haut monde, Miss Rossiter, if the son of the Marquess of Hetherington were to ally himself with the daughter of a drunkard and a spendthrift?"
Elizabeth had felt herself flushing, but she had been too young to dare to let her anger form an answer for her.
"You are a fortune-hunter, of course," the cold voice had gone on, "but my nephew has undoubtedly failed to inform you of the fact that very little of the family money will come his way."
"I am not interested in money, sir," she had found the courage to say.
"Oh, come, come, Miss Rossiter," he had replied, irritated, "we are all interested in money. We are fools if we say we are not. I shall not allow you to have my nephew, you know. When he is older, he will see that it is wise to choose a marriage partner who can increase his consequence. And Robert must marry money and position. It is essential for a younger son to do so."
Elizabeth had stared at him, her chin lifted defiantly.
"How much will it take to make you realize that marriage to my nephew is not a wise course for you?" he had asked.
Elizabeth had not immediately understood. "I beg your pardon?" she had asked blankly.
He had answered impatiently. "I have no time for these missish airs of innocence, Miss Rossiter," he had said. 'What is your price?"
She had gaped inelegantly.
"Unlike my brother and his family, I am as rich as Croesus, as the vulgar saying goes," he had said, "and I believe in investing some of that money in the future welfare of my family."
"Are you offering me money to break my relationship with Robert?" she had asked incredulously.
"How much, Miss Rossiter?"
Elizabeth had risen to her feet, breathing hard. "I have nothing to say to you, sir," she had said. "I notice that the music has stopped. I must return to my aunt."
"I see that I shall have to deal with your father," Horace Denning had said, quite unperturbed. "I shall not find him so scrupulous, I wager."
Elizabeth had felt chilled as she hurried to rejoin her aunt in the ballroom.
Not many days afterward, Mr. Rossiter had appeared in London, claiming that business had brought him there. But Elizabeth had not been surprised when he had taken her to task for her attachment to Robert Denning.
"Did his uncle tell you about this?" she had asked him.
"It need not concern you where I heard about your goings-on, Lizzie," he had said sternly. "It is sufficient for you to know that it will not do and you must see no more of this young man."
"What possible objection can you have, Papa?" she had asked. "He is of excellent birth, as you must know. He has manners and education."
"And not a groat to his name," he had snapped.
"We had not planned to marry until he inherits the money his mother left him," Elizabeth had explained.
"Marriage?" he had said harshly. "And who gave you permission to talk of marriage, miss?"
"We have talked of it, Papa," she had said hesitantly, "though it will be a long while before we can consider even a formal betrothal."
"You can forget the whole idea," he had announced. "Do you think I have raised you and sent you to London, Lizzie, so that you might enter into a lengthy engagement to a penniless puppy? You will do your duty, my girl, and start looking around you for someone whose pockets are well lined. Never mind the handsome faces and the fancy titles. Marry a cit, if you must, but you will marry money."